Strange Happestance
by Pikeru's Angel
Summary: It's after the pool, walking into that church, that John gets the surprise of his life. What the hell was going on? Warning for OOCness, language in chapter two, and mentions of violence.
1. Chapter 1

John isn't entirely sure why he's there, walking up to a church in the middle of June. Over two months since the Moriarty incident and he's headed off to church, hands stuck nonchalantly in his pant pockets when he feels anything but. He suspects the cathedral will be empty. It's a Thursday, and the church he's going in to has never been a busy one.

As he opens the door John stiffens, if only slightly. He hasn't been in a church, an honest-to-God _church_, in almost four years when Harry got married. It feels so odd, entering this place. He knows, partially, it's because it isn't nearly as silent as he would have expected. No, not even close. The door is barely cracked open and he can hear someone. The voice is familiar, but too muffled by the hitching of breath to really make out. It's heavily accented Irish, that's all he can tell.

Carefully, he walks in fully. There's someone kneeling up by the podium in front. Dark hair is mused, and even from a distance John can see blood dripping from an open wound on his arm. The person's shoulders are shaking, like they can't stop. "F-forgive me Father, for I have sinned," comes from trembling lips, it rings through the heavy air like a crack of thunder, and more quiet prayers come tumbling out. As soon as he hears those clear words, John knows who it is.

"Moriarty?" He says, shocked. They (being the police and Mycroft) had been after the consulting criminal since the pool, and they hadn't found a single thing. It was as if the man had disappeared off the face of the earth. And now here he was, in a church, praying as though his life depended of it.

The words stopped flowing, and Moriarty just sits there, like he's waiting for something to happen. Maybe he is. Maybe he's waiting for a shout, or a hit. _Something_ to signify that John is upset at seeing the mastermind behind what was nearly his death.

John does none of those things, instead taking a careful step forward and crouching down on his haunches. He's prepared to get up and run if he has to, but he doesn't want to. He places a hand under the wound, examining it with a trained eye. Now that he was closer he could see the dark bruise covering the whole of Moriarty's left cheek, and there were fading marks of strangulation on his neck. John was sure there was more covered by the torn black hoodie, but he didn't worry about it at that moment.

The younger man stiffens under his touch before relaxing slightly. He glanced up, taking note of the man before him.

"Never took you for the religious type," said the ex-army doctor, wiping away some of the blood with his hand. "The wound doesn't look that deep, though you should probably get something on it."

Suddenly the epitome of control and power, Moriarty gave a sarcastic smile. "Nor I you, Doctor Watson." He winced slightly when the other man kept prodding, but gave no other sign of discomfort. "And I'll do that."

Nodding slightly hazel eyes glanced over to brown. "I'm not, usually. Are you?" He shrugged, pulling up the hoodies sleeves and taking careful note of the marks on the wrist. Moriarty had been tired up at some point. "What happened, exactly?"

"I'm not," Jim replied slowly, avoiding the second question. "My mother was. Tried to make me a nice little alter boy." He laughed mirthlessly. "Didn't exactly work now did it?" He was silent for a moment, and John looked at him expectantly. "Business went under. People do tend to get picky when things don't turn out. Entire mutiny by my… staff." He smirked, but there was the smallest glimmer of hurt in his eyes. _Must have been involved with one of them,_ John thought.

"Yes, well, I imagine you didn't get a terrible amount of business," He said, fingers brushing back dark hair to get a better look at the neck. "Can't put "consulting criminal" on your card, can you?" He gave a small smile, trying to lighten the heavy mood of the church. Moriarty returned it, and it almost looked… genuine. If John didn't know better he would have said it was, but he knew people. He could see the slight wrinkle around the eyes, how the lips turned a bit too much. Just that slight amount of force to it, not as true as it could have been. At that moment it was good enough.

Jim stayed silent as the doctor continued to examine his right arm, though when John started reaching for the left he flinched back. His eyes widened slightly, and he brought his wrist up to his chest protectively. "Don't," he said quietly, though the faux-authority still shone through the word.

"I'm a doctor," John replied, voice low and soothing. "I won't hurt you." Which, as much as he wanted it to be a lie, it was true. For everything the man before him had done he couldn't quite bring himself to "kick the puppy", so to speak. It wasn't in his nature.

"You're an _army doctor_." Jim hissed back. His eyes lowered, looking more towards John's nose than his eyes. It was a small change, but incredibly obvious for one focusing on body language. "So why don't you just call your precious detective or, better yet, why don't you kill me yourself?" There was no venom in the words, just a simple compliance. Like he expected revenge. This may have been true for just about everyone else, but John Watson was not everyone else.

Instead of lashing out or anything of the sort John reached out, taking Jim's arm and pulling him up. "I'm still a doctor first and foremost, Mr. Moriarty." He chuckled, leading the other man towards the door. "You are one of the first people who actually forgets that. Though I suppose I don't look much like a soldier, do I? Rugby player more like. At least that's what Harry tells me." He continued with this inane chatter all the way to the street before stripping his jacket and handing it to the other man.

Cocking his head to one side Jim took the offered clothing, brows furrowed in confusion. John laughed again.

"I doubt there's any cabbie in London who won't get suspicious over a man in a ragged hoodie with a bleeding arm." He grinned good naturedly, trying in vain to hail a passing cab. "I never liked that ratty old jacket anyway. A blood stain gives me an excuse to get rid of it." Nodding slowly Jim placed the jacket on over the pull over. If John had anything planned he certainly was hiding it well. (_Not everyone has an ulterior motive. Some people just want to help_, some small part of his mind whispered, but Jim ignored it. What reason did he have not to? It had always been wrong before.)

Finally, John flagged down a cab, slipping in smoothly. Jim slowly followed, resting his hands on his lap as John gave the address.

{][][}

**A/N: Well... I'm certainly getting into Moriarty as of late, aren't I? Hm.**

**Funny thing - this has 1,221 words to it. Just take off the one and we get our favorite address... XD**

**I suppose this is where I bribe you with jumpers and such to review? *raises eyebrow***

**~Piki :B**


	2. Chapter 2

It was only as he was getting out of the cab that Jim fully realized what had happened. He had been in that Church, the one where Carl's service had been, seeking redemption before he would go to Scotland Yard when none other than John Watson showed up. And now here he was, standing in front of 221B as the doctor paid the fair. A sudden thought occurred to him, though he couldn't say he minded it terribly.

"Don't you think Sherlock might, I don't know, kill me on the spot the second I walk into your flat?" He questioned. John blinked, pausing as he pulled out his keys before shrugging.

"You do look a bit different from when we last saw you. I can easily play you off as someone from Uni who needs a place to stay for the night. He probably won't look twice as long as you don't talk." The younger man nodded. He was in rather a state. Ratty old jeans that were a size too big, John's coat, hair grown out longer. And the weeks worth of stubble partially covered his natural features. All in all, he looked nothing like himself. No Westwood suits or evil plans; just a man down on his luck.

After a moment John smiled, opening the door and leading Jim in. "Just go up to my room -I assume you know our flat layout- and I'll explain to Sherlock. I'll be up with the first aid kit soon." The dark haired man nodded, following at a slightly slower pace than normal up the stairs. He completely bypassed the sitting room, not saying a word and half-hiding his features. He could hear John explaining something about a mugging and old friends, but he didn't pay much attention.

He made his way into the doctor's room, one eyebrow raising as he sat down by the desk. It was a bit more messy than he'd imagined for someone previously in the military. Jumpers strewn about, the laptop screen dark as it lay open on the bed and crumpled balls of paper lying just beside the bin. If he hadn't know better he would have never guessed whose room it was, at least not at first glance. It had a lived in, homey feel about it, almost like the apartment he and Seb had shared…

Jim blinked, wiping at his eyes quickly. Those days were long past now, and the whole relationship had been one big plan to take over. All _Moran_ had been waiting for was an opportunity; a time when he could rise without much resistance. He got it in the form of a pool, a bomb, and a broken ankle. Jim doubted he would ever admit to what had happened in the past week or why he was planning to go to the Yard.

There was a knock at the door, startling Jim out of his thoughts. He got up slowly, limping slightly to the door and opening it. He fully expected to see John with the first aid kit, maybe a cup of tea in his hand.

It wasn't.

Going with his first instinct he ducked his head, trying in vain to hide his features from Sherlock, but it was too late. Slender hands grabbed his arms roughly, pushing him back to the chair. "What are you doing here?" The detective asked, voice low and menacing. Jim looked up with a bravado he didn't remotely feel.

"I was invited," he replied, a slight sarcastic note coloring his voice. Sherlock scowled, his grip tightening to the point of being painful.

"Oh really?" He said. "You didn't threaten John to lie for you so you could get it?" He glared, the rest of his face the perfect blank picture. Other than that slight glare there was no emotion what so ever. "I could kill you right now, Moriarty. There are so many ways I could-"

"Sherlock!" The voice, while still John's, was almost unfamiliar. The commanding tone within was so different than the man using it. "Let go of him and back away." Sherlock did the first, but he stayed exactly where he was, eyes hard as he turned around.

John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He didn't do anything, Sherlock. I found him kneeling in a church and injured. I couldn't in good conscious take him to the Yard like that. And yes, I know they would probably take care of it, but I doubt there is any doctor in the _country_ who, knowing what he did, would not give him the bare minimum of what they could."

"He's playing you, John!" The other man replied angrily. "You're a bigger idiot than I thought if you can't see that. Think about who we're-"

"No, Sherlock, _you_ look at the man sitting in that chair right now. That is not James Moriarty that you played your sick game with, it's just _Jim_. Do you honestly think he's capable right now? If it makes you feel better he can sleep on the sofa and you can take him down with me in the morning, but he. Is. Staying." He sighed, placing the first aid kit in his hand on the bed before turning to his patient, ignoring the look of shock on Sherlock's face. "I need you to sit over here. I'll help you take off the coat and hoodie. Sprained wrist, right?"

Nodding numbly Jim slid past Sherlock, stripping the coat onto the floor. Without another word Sherlock swooped around, slamming the door as he left.

Slowly, John stripped the hoodie, keeping his motions smooth and professional. Jim stayed limp, allowing his body to be moved as needed. He stiffened slightly and John's hands ghosted over his back (and _damn_ that last week, damn it to hell), and he hung his head. No, he certainly wasn't James Moriarty anymore. Just a broken shell after a few hits and a betrayal. How _pathetic_.

Calloused hands went through each motion as quickly as possible. Wrapped the, as it turned out, sprained wrist, placing antiseptic on shallow cuts, and bandaging what needed to be. The whole process took almost two hours. Two hours spent in absolute silence. It was unnerving.

John finished with a sigh, placing the first aid kit under the bed as he walked to his nightstand. He pulled out a small pull bottle, taking out two of the white capsules and handing them to Jim. The other man raised an eyebrow at the outstretched hand. "They're just painkillers." John said, but received a curt negative as Jim stood up.

He wavered slightly on his feet, one hand going to his head. John offered a quick hand, steadying his patient. "Let's get you downstairs," he said quietly. "Resting o the couch might do you some good. Maybe some takeaway?"

Defiantly shaking his head Jim broke free of the grasp, all but stumbling his way to the sitting room. He scowled as John caught up, trying to stop him. "Why not just cart me off to Scotland Yard already? It's not as if you care." It was more bark than bite; a weak attempt at distancing himself from the situation and, more importantly, the person causing it. Without another word he walked off, laying down on the couch in the sitting room with a huff. Unsurprisingly, Sherlock was already waiting for him, violin poised in his hand like some sort of weapon. Jim laughed internally, briefly considering trying to run just so the consulting detective would knock him out, but quickly decided against it. It wouldn't do well to have a concussion on top of everything else, after all.

Closing his eyes he forced himself to relax, sprained wrist over his stomach while his other arm lazed over the edge of the couch. Despite the different environment it was actually easier to think than it had been at the office or at the apartment (which certainly wasn't home). Maybe it was why Sherlock had taken 221B in the first place.

Mind wandering in several different directions he could feel the artificial state of rest slowly become more natural, limbs melting into the smooth leather. He vaguely wondered what John's motives were. Perhaps the doctor was simply just trying to help? The thought was quickly dismissed. No, he probably just saw and opportunity and took it.

He sighed through his nose, hearing an already familiar gait going into the kitchen. Kettle plugged in quickly, then hushed words exchanged. He couldn't make them out but "he" and "safe" were used quite a few times, so it was probably the correct assumption they were talking about him.

Just as he was about to let his mind wander again here were retreating footsteps -_long, quick strides; Sherlock_- and the thump of someone sitting down in the chair Sherlock had occupied. "You know you're not fooling me. May as well open your eyes so we can have this conversation properly." Jim sighed again, propping himself up against the arm of the couch. He raised one thin eyebrow at the other man.

"What conversation do we need to have "properly"?" He questioned and for one moment he sounded exactly like he had at the pool; too sure of himself and with just a bit of that higher-than-thou impression about him. John actually smiled, seemingly pleased with this.

"I thought it might be better to know _why_ I found you injured and praying at a church. Before I take you in, I mean." The smile on his lips quirked slightly to one side, turning into the smallest of smirks. Jim wasn't even sure he'd have noticed it if that wasn't where his eye was trained. The second he noticed this his eyes snapped back up, once again meeting hazel.

There was silence for a minute or two before Jim realized John actually _was_ expecting an answer. Why the other man wanted to know he couldn't tell, but it was clear he wasn't going to leave until he got it. Jim crossed his arm over his wrist in a subconscious motion of protection, adjusting himself on the couch.

"Might take a while," he said smoothly, trying to avoid going into the whole damn thing.

John just shrugged. "We have time."

Biting the inside of his cheek Jim wondered if he could lie his way out of this. There were dozens of possibilities for the injures (mugged on the way to the church, enemies, etc.), but there was really only one thing he could say for the praying.

"I was trying to make peace." He muttered, tilting his head back and looking at the ceiling. "When I first started with this I prayed at least once a week, more out of habit than anything, and I always asked forgiveness for what I'd done or helped someone else do." Giving a one armed shrug he glanced at John, whom genuinely seemed interested in this explanation. "The tradition died out after the first few months. Thought I would one last time before I turn myself in." Which was entirely not his choice, but that didn't mean it wouldn't be happening for sure now.

The blond blinked in surprise, head cocked to one side. "Does the fact that you were going to head off to the Yard have anything to do with how you got your injuries?"

_Everything_, he thought, but didn't say.

"A bit, I suppose," he said, but didn't really think about.

Nodding slowly John stood up, walking out of the room. Jim's shoulders sagged in relief. Maybe he'd lost interest, or truly hadn't cared in the first place, or…

"Tea?" John asked, the word sliding smoothly from his mouth as he set two mugs on the coffee table. He gave a brief smile when Jim picked one up, taking his own. "Now what about how you got those?" He motioned to the wrapped wrist, though it was clear he meant the injuries as a whole.

Jim took a small sip of the tea, humming in appreciation. Milk with no sugar. Just how he liked it. How had John known though? Maybe it was just how he took his tea or-

There was a sharp snap and he blinked, coming out of his mind. John didn't comment, seeming to understand. It probably happened to Sherlock quite a bit. One of the prices to pay for genius - the ever wandering mind.

"It started with Sebastian, I suppose. Sebastian Moran. We grew up together." He gave the briefest flash of a genuine smile, though it quickly turned to a frown. "We met each other again, about a year back. He had a bit of a gambling problem at the time. I think I'd just moved to London and I was working in IT at Bart's. I helped him out, paid off a few debts. Damn if it didn't drown out what savings I had left. He stayed with me for a bit. We ended up sharing a bed because neither of us could afford a lilo and the only furniture I have was two chairs, a bed, and a coffee table. I think we started dating about a week later.

"He kept going on about how smart I was back then; how I'd pretty much taken over the school and he kept mentioning the Carl Power's _thing_ I planned and he executed - which I didn't ask him to do, by the way. He said I could make a business out of it. He could find some starting clients, I'd make a coded website under the name Moriarty that would be an easier way to communicate. I didn't think he'd meant a criminal enterprise, at the time.

"The ball got rolling and by the time I realized what he'd meant I'd already been paid by three people -people at the head of drug rings and the like- that would kill me if I didn't "fix their problems", as Seb put it." He sighed again, blinking down into his tea, not bothering to take note of the tears welling behind his eyes or the expression on John's face. "I enjoyed it. Planning out the perfect crimes for them, the satisfaction that they didn't get caught. Before I knew it three regular clients turned to six, and then ten, and then there were the one-timers… God it was fun. If one of them did get caught they never mentioned me. Money, I found out, gags people more efficiently than threats. Eventually regulars turned to employees. By the time I was two months in I couldn't go without that thrill.

"About five months after that I found Sherlock. Trolling the web, looking around for the proper poison that wouldn't kill someone with an aneurism. I believe the papers called him the Killer Cabbie, once he was caught. Anyway, when I found that website I was enthralled. It was fascinating, finding another mind that worked like mine. And in the same city, no less. You know what happened after that.

"At the pool though… That changed things. I was in a private hospital for almost three weeks in and out of consciousness after a scrape with some of the shrapnel. When I went back to my apartment I was on bed rest for another two. I guess that's what Seb was waiting for. By the time I was back he'd taken over the whole enterprise." He laughed mirthlessly, blinking hard and taking another drink from the ever-colder tea. "That's the whole reason he tried to find me. It wasn't chance, the gambling problem was a fake to where I would _need_ the money from the consulting business, and the clients were close friends that didn't need my help in the first place. All he wanted was that syndicate to be kicked off it's feet without having to do any of the work.

"I suppose I should have expected it. Seb always was a manipulative bastard. I can't believe I was actually in love with him. Still in love him." He blinked again, tears finally falling without a single move to stop them. "God, I'm such an idiot. I tried to take back control those first couple of weeks, discreetly. I'd say I had a headache and needed to be alone, or that I was going to bed early because of the pain pills. He found out, of course. Should have been expecting the cameras too.

"He confronted me on that last week, threatened me to turn myself in. I refused, of course I did. Why would I go down without a fight? He went through with the threats, dropped me off near the Yard four hours ago and told me to turn myself in by next week. Sooner rather than later seemed like a better option, but I wanted to stop by that church first." He paused. "That's where Carl's service was. He was only going to be living in Sussex for one year before going back. It was his last competition before he moved back."

Inhaling deeply he put the tea down, covering wiping his eyes with pinching the bridge of his nose. He glanced up at John, trying to identify his reaction, but he couldn't place it. Somewhere between amazement and guilt, he guessed.

Neither of them spoke for a moment, John still holding his full mug of cold tea. John suddenly blinked, brow furrowing.

"You said "under the name Moriarty". James is common enough to where you couldn't be identified by it, but you changed your last name." Jim laughed, wincing at the twinge it brought to his ribs.

"Very good, Doctor. I'm not James Moriarty. There is no James Evan Moriarty in the system, I checked." He steepled his fingers under his chin, smirking slightly, but there was no malice to it. "They don't even have my prints on record, as far as I'm aware. I don't exist, according to Scotland Yard. I might not be able to get charged because I'm not on record. They literally _can't_ find out who I am." The smirk fell from his face. "Except Seb wants me in prison. He'll give me out. Probably had out my old hospital ID."

John cocked his head to one side, brow furrowed, but he didn't say another word as he grabbed the tea and walked off.

As he went Jim leaned back down on the sofa, closing his eyes. "Jim Hartford - just another one who got caught."

From his spot in the kitchen John smiled.

{][][}

As it turned out John had, quite successfully, convinced Sherlock he would keep an eye on their prisoner of sorts, but had fallen asleep during. Jim was gone by morning.

Sherlock had run out the door, cursing all the way about John having to be human. There was a call from Lestrade later, to whom John explained why Sherlock was demanding CCTV footage. _All_ of the explanation.

And if someone named Jim Hartford opened up a computer shop three weeks later everyone turns a blind eye.

{][Fin][}

**A/N: I don't know how hospitals work in London, but here in the states fingerprints are only required for a government job or if you have a criminal record. Any mistakes concerning these sort of things should be taken as either me being a stupid American or creative license.**

**Yay! I don't know why I loved writing this so much, I really don't. Hopefully Jim's OOCness is now partially explained. XD Not asking forgiveness for it or anything, but hopefully it's a bit better.**

**Sooo... yeah. Thanks to CuriousDreamWeaver, AssassinofRome, Luffy Mara, aquamarine565, and O'FoggageGreen for their reviews on the previous chapter. ^_^**

**~Piki :B**


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